


37

by RockSaltandCherryPie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Nipple Play, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 02:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5810995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltandCherryPie/pseuds/RockSaltandCherryPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>drunk!chesters on Dean's bday</p>
            </blockquote>





	37

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of just wanted bday wincest so that's all this is.  
> spoilers (kinda) up until 11x10  
> Happy birthday Deano!

There’s been so much crap. So much death, sadness, self-loathing and more recently, darkness. Dean’s felt it in his hands, the weight of unleashing yet another big bad S.O.B. on an innocent, unsuspecting world. Feels it every day.  
So, it’s no wonder he forgot his own birthday. Birthdays seemed so trivial, celebrating yet another year he’s alive, another year he evaded death. Actually even _killed_ Death last year. Hah. He still couldn’t believe that happened.  
Anyway, Sam remembered. Well, he apparently only remembered at seven at night, because they rented out a motel after gathering some of Bobby’s old research concerning the Darkness and God, (a last-hope kind of attempt to save the world, pretty much) and Sam, out of nowhere, glanced up from his computer and, looking kind of astonished, said “dude, happy birthday.” Which came as a surprise to Dean anyway, because crap, had it already been a year since he’d been dealing with trying to get the stupid mark of Cain off his arm? Selfishly, he’s glad to be rid of it, but the cost was far too steep to ever have time to revel in celebration.  
So when Sam suggested they “go out and do something fun,” Dean could not refuse.  
Sam needed it. Hell, maybe he even needed it a little, too.

So they go to a bar and order steak. Splurging on food is not something they do often, and the more wasted Dean gets, the more he realizes _this is a special occasion, damn it!_ So why the hell not.  
They don’t talk about angels, demons, the apocalypse… they don’t talk about the fucking Darkness. Just for one night, for this _special occasion_ , they talk about useless shit. And it feels so good. Getting drunk with Sam is one of Dean’s favorite things, honestly, because he gets these lazy-happy expressions and he’s all dimples and hand gestures and obnoxious laughs. It’s like just for one night they _let the fuck go_ , like that Disney song or whatever, (don’t ask how Dean knows about that) and it’s feeling progressively more amazing with each downed glass of wine.

When they get back to the motel Dean cracks open a few beers so they don’t lose whatever high they got going while the small TV set airs _Dirty Harry_ on some late night movie channel. Sam gets changed in some sweats, they both get comfortable like it’s some seventh-grade sleepover and settle on the same bed in front of the screen, downing beer.  
They talk over Eastwood’s dialogue, Dean pretty much knows every line and Sam’s so amused he keeps laughing and adding things in that he remembers too.  
Every now again, Dean recalls a glimpse of something dark, Amara, Lucifer, the cage and Sam in it, but he wills his mind to stray away from those images as he swallows down another sip of beer.

They’re way past wasted, another hour gone and approxi—approximately four or five empty bottles on the nightstand, they keep coming and going almost automatically and it’s hilarious. So is the fact that Sam adjusted from a sitting position to a half-lying position and their elbows keep brushing one another like there’s not enough room on the bed. Which there isn’t. But neither of them seem to mind. Harry shoots at someone and Sam actually _laughs_. Sick bastard.  
Dean glances down and through a dizzy haze, his drunken eyes trying to catch up to the movement, he sees a glimpse of Sam’s exposed chest where his t-shirt’s being pulled down taut by his arm. He sees his nipple, right there, dark brown against his muscle and he licks his lips because it’s like… it’s _cute_. God, why is everything Sam does so goddamn _cute_? Dean calls him out on his serial killer kink again. Listen to him, laughing. How long had it been since Sam laughed that much? He throws his head back, exposing his neck and the sweet sound of a guttural chuckle. His hair strands almost whip in Dean’s face.  
“ _I do not,_ Dean.”  
“Do too.” Dean teases. “Look at your nipple.” If he’s telling the truth, Dean just wanted an excuse to talk about it. He’s lightheaded because it feels like there’s this finger in his brain just stirring up his thoughts and feelings, and he’s just letting them bubble out. It’s awesome.  
Sam gapes then looks down. He’s still got this shit-eating grin on his face when he says “what about it?”  
“It’s hard.”  
And then Sam reaches and touches it, _rubs at it_ with his palm almost humbly. “So?” He’s quieter, softer. A rush of drunken bliss makes Dean almost see purple when Sam glances up at him.  
“So…” The space between them seems to literally melt away, their lips finding each other naturally, effortlessly and apparently all on their own. Sam’s tongue is hot and tastes exactly like his own. Cheap beer and a dark anticipation. It’s deep, drunken, ugly desire with their mouths chafing each other, slippery-wet friction and it’s more than Dean can directly handle in the state he’s in now. Anyway, he snakes his hand up Sam’s shirt, smoothing his palm over his stomach and up in between his ribs. He thumbs at his nipple, rolling it underneath the press of his finger, eliciting a deep little throaty moan out of Sam’s mouth and right back into his own. He doesn’t think, just shifts to bring his body over Sam’s and _feels_ him, with his hands and his mouth, because if he even _thinks_ for a second he’s probably going to vomit.  
Fuck it. They’re allowed to feel good, right? This? This is good.

37\. Hm. Maybe he is sicker than he was last year.


End file.
